


The Hunger

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Betty is being abused at the Farm, Emotional Abuse, F/F, F/M, Medical Abuse, Mute!Jason, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Vampire!Jughead, Vampire!Serpents, bughead - Freeform, choni
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:25:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Betty is being slowly starved at the Farm, while Jughead is hungry for blood. Hunger and seductive Blood Lust leads the pair into a swirl of terror, torture, and an inescapable dark fate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE heed the tags. This fic details physical and emotional abuse of teenagers. Watch your triggers and be safe out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [redcirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/pseuds/redcirce) who made the lovely cover image for The Hunger. 
> 
> Please check out her account - she's amazing!

 

 

 

* * *

 

It’s been a shitty morning with the prospect of a painful night ahead. Jughead is one teacher insult away from walking out of Riverdale High forever, which would make FP and Sweet Pea happy. The three of them could make double their runs to Canada to secure much-needed plasma for the Serpents. They’re already on half-rations with the threat of further reductions by the end of the week. The thought of those shortages makes Jughead’s stomach do a slow roll of hunger.

When the new students walk into the school, he doesn’t pay much attention at first. There’s a boy with white skin and flaming red hair, beautiful by male model standards, who outshines the girl beside him. She’s slender and pale with blond hair pulled back in a painfully neat ponytail. As she walks past Jughead, he catches the evocative scent of secret rooms and old books in her wake.

Then the two new kids walk on to disappear in a sea of glowing phone screens, and Jughead forgets the new arrivals with the memory of his Hunger.

#

Her name is Betty. When Jughead arrives for the last few minutes of lunch she’s sitting with a book in her hands, all alone in a corner table. Like him she doesn’t eat, and that’s what makes him truly notice her at last.

_On some dumb diet,_ he thinks. _And why?_ She’s already thin, cheekbones elegant as a helix. He sucks his teeth, imagining her daily routine of chasing thigh gaps and the other impossible standards set by magazine covers. He’s seen other humans go through those rituals, comparing pounds lost and food not eaten as their flesh melts away. One small flame of anger licks his chest at the thought. After all, they can easily buy their food. Hell, they can go to cafes or restaurants and simply order what they want.

But now that she’s swum into his vision, he can’t seem to get away. Jughead’s own hunger has reached painful levels when he goes to Chem II and sees the new addition to his lab table. It’s her again, the girl with pale skin and a golden ponytail.

The teacher gives them an impassioned lecture on the morphine molecule, a lesson that would be fascinating if starvation weren’t so close. Jughead grips his seat with both hands, willing himself to stay and not run away, not attack one of the students and Feast until he’s satiated with warm blood.

“No other molecule dictates human behavior like morphine,” the teacher says. “It reroutes DNA, changes the brain, destroys profoundly human concepts like love and empathy. At first, opium promise heaven, but of course that glimpse of paradise quickly changes to hell. Reggie, stop playing on your phone right now."

Mantle grumbles, slams his Galaxy on the desk, and picks up a pen. The lesson proceeds, interrupted by coughs and a few requests for the bathroom pass.

At the end there’s a quick quiz. Jughead rewinds the lecture inside his brain to search for the answers and writes them down quickly in his slanting print. He changes the words so his performance won’t be _too_ perfect.

Not that any of these absurdly weak creatures inside Riverdale would recognize or even understand his kind. Only the Serpents know what he is.

As he finishes Jughead catches a glimpse of Betty’s paper, filled with scratch-outs and scribbles. Some answers have been left blank in a maddeningly familiar pattern. If he weren’t so ravenous he could figure out what it was.

The bell rings, and Betty stands up. Her knuckles tighten on the side of her desk, and Jughead knows exactly what has happened - she’s dizzy from getting out of her seat too quickly as blood rushes away from her brain. A fainting human would cause all kinds of fuss and nonsense that he doesn’t need, and Jughead casually brushes against Betty to keep her upright. For one instant he feels how light she is, how cool her skin feels against his shoulder, and just as rapidly she moves away. Her fainting fit seems to have passed.

“Sorry.” With that single word, Betty picks up her backpack and leaves the room. At the doorway she pauses and gives him one final look, the sideways glance of a creature who understands what it means to be haunted.

Later, Jughead will remember the first thing Betty ever gave him was an apology.

#

Jason doesn’t speak as Betty gets into the passenger seat. The boy has never talked, not one word in all the time since she arrived at the Farm. They have lived in the same hallway and gone to the same schools for the five years Betty has known him.

Life with the Neverevers is a continual challenge. Betty has learned a very long list of survival techniques, but the most important one Jason uses is silence.

Together they drive through the small town at the speed limit. Jason brakes for stop signs and pedestrians. Betty doesn’t look out of the window, not even when a boy on a motorcycle pulls up beside the car and waves. Jason turns in his seat towards her, an unspoken question.

“Someone from school,” Betty explains. It’s a quick explanation, leaving out a host of details: the boy’s name, Jughead. How he wears a black leather jacket with a popped collar and a snake on the back. How his black hair falls over his forehead, how he thrusts it back impatiently with long writer’s fingers.

How he shifted to hold Betty upright with strong arms and corded muscle like steel when she nearly fell in Chemistry, and how she couldn’t think of anything to say in return except Sorry.

Riverdale falls into the rearview as their car hits the Lost Highway, and the long driveway leading to the Farm appears all too soon. The relentless road delivers them to the long entrance flanked by empty mailboxes and a faded sign proclaiming they have just left the Town with Pep!

Jason swings the wheel, and the old Dodge Dart bumps up the driveway. 1 2 3, Betty thinks before she exhales. 1 2 3 inhale. 1 2 3 out. 1 2 3 in.

Faded letters on the old building still read Quiet Mercy. Once Betty might have laughed darkly at that irony, but now she simply waits for the Dodge to stop.

One last bump, and Jason cuts the ignition. They sit for a moment, both peering through the windshield at the blind eyes of the building. All the windows are hidden behind thick curtains.

One shade in the kitchen twitches. They’re being watched.

1 2 3. 1 2 3. 1 2 3.

Jason gets out of the car, and Betty collects her books before following him into the Farm.

#

Jughead sees Betty on the outskirts of town at the entrance to old Highway 81. She’s in the passenger beside the ginger, who’s even more redheaded than Archie Andrews. Her brother? A boyfriend? There’s no way to tell.

Her window is slightly open, and a breeze stirs one lock of golden hair. When they’re stopped at a light, Jughead can’t resist knocking on her window. Betty ignores him and says something to the driver, before the old Dodge turns left onto the Lost Highway.

He considers following, but would that be creepy? Emphatically, Yes.

He turns his bike in the opposite direction, heading for Sunnyside. As he gets close Jughead feels his stomach do a slow roll. It’s dinnertime.

Sure enough, Thistle House is filled with hungry Serpents. The metallic smell of O negative fills the kitchen, and Jughead’s nostrils flare. It’s been over 24 hours.

“Blood bags,” Cheryl is saying with scorn. “Cold leftovers that taste like medical plastic. Disgusting.”

“I once drank living blood.” Toni sits on Cheryl’s lap, so close to her girlfriend that the two might be one person. In the darkened kitchenette, they resemble a sculpture or Renaissance painting. “It felt like flying to the stars.”

Cheryl exclaims _You never told me that,_ and _When did this happen,_ but Jughead has stopped listening. Rumors of live feeding have surfaced lately, especially since Gargoyles have attacked the Serpents supply of blood. Along with those stories are whispers of what it’s like: Toni’s ‘flight to the stars’ is apparently just the beginning. “A two-hour orgasm,” Penny once said. “Better than any drug you can imagine.”

Like Toni and Penny, FP also Feasted on living blood, but he never talks about it. “That’s my business,” he snapped when Jughead asked his father, months ago when the supply began to fall short. “We have enough problems as it is.”

“Jug.” Sweet Pea nudges him and hands over a small packet. “Lunchtime, my dude.”

It’s instantly apparent that something is wrong. “This isn’t half-rations.” Jughead weighs the plastic envelope in his palm, a scarlet scrim of tiny bubbles visible under the label. “What the hell? I haven’t eaten for a day!”

“Gargoyles broke in again.” FP swipes one hand over his face and blows out a long breath. “Lost half our supplies, and we were already on a starvation diet. Looks like we’re going on a raid tonight.”

#

“Here you are at last!” Evelyn wears a flowered apron, her smile bright and welcoming. “Look, I’ve baked your favorite. Blueberry pie!”

The pastry has a heart cut out on top, and Betty can see the fruit oozing inside. A delicious parenthesis of steam curls up from the dessert, smelling like butter and brown sugar and fresh lemon zest. “Looks delicious,” Betty says.

Evelyn waves it under Jason’s nose, but of course he doesn’t say anything. “I’ll just put it here on the windowsill to cool. Now, chore-time and then homework.”

“May we change?”

With the flash of a striking cobra, Evelyn smacks Betty’s cheek once, twice, once again. “I spend all day baking and you ask me that? No, you can’t change. But don’t you dare get those good school clothes dirty. Now, go.”

Over the years, Betty has learned not to cry. She nods and heads to the hallway. In her peripheral vision, the pie waits on the wide kitchen windowsill, flanked by geraniums. It’s the very picture of a comfortable home.

No one will ever eat the pie, unless Edgar has a slice later. Betty knows it will sit there for days, its pastry gradually folding with mold and flies. If either she or Jason dared to touch it, they would be given one of Evelyn’s more creative punishments: loss of sight for a day or one of the Farm’s “operations.”

Their chore is to haul heavy buckets of hot water down to the basement chapel and scrub the floors. It’s a long task, impossible for two starving kids.

Betty has several cheese sticks sewn into a secret pocket of her sweater so she and Jason will be able to eat something before they clean Edgar’s church. It means they might not pass out before the job is done. It means they’ll have enough calories to make it to nighttime. It means they’ll live another day.

Cameras track every room in the Farm, but over time Betty has shifted the corner surveillance just enough to give a blackspot in the chapel. She’s done the same in her and Jason’s rooms, giving them both a small area of privacy.

Working in tandem, Betty and Jason begin the routine of cleaning the underground chapel. When the time is right, she frees two of the cheese sticks and slides them to Jason under one of the large sponges. And, as she turns to scrub below the altar, Betty palms her own cheese and eats quickly. The wrappers get folded back into her secret pocket. She’ll throw out the trash at school in the morning so Evelyn won’t find it.

Even that small amount of food eases the cramps in her belly and stops the shakes throughout her body. Betty peers around the altar and sees that Jason’s cheeks are flushed with color, not that dreadful pallor from a day of starvation.

Once they’re done, Betty and Jason walk up three flights of stairs to the attics.

Jason knocks her elbow and waves, a tiny motion of thanks. Betty nods and watches him go into his room before disappearing into hers. There she drops her backpack and collapses on the bare mattress, feeling as though her legs simply will not carry her any longer.

#

FP and Cheryl go on a run to Greendale. Apparently she’s got a lead on a coroner who’ll sell blood under the table for cash, no questions asked. The cost is astronomical, but Blood Hunger is worse.

Jughead lies on his bed, laces both hands on his stomach, and stares at the ceiling. He’s read so much nonsense about his kind: that they sleep in coffins, they can turn into bats or wolves, that they never die. None of this is true. They don’t have superhuman strength, just the ability to pick up thoughts if the other person is on the same wavelength. That’s what Toni calls it – ‘wavelength.’

“Hey.” Sweet Pea sneaks into the room and lies next to Jughead. “I heard this fancy joint under the Chocklit Shoppe sells Blood Companions. For the right price, there are a bunch of girls who’ll let you Feast right from the jugular.”

“We certainly can’t afford that, even if we wanted to try it. Can you imagine the fallout? Nothing puts a huge sign over your head like a line entry in the Blood Companion sign-in sheet,” Jughead scoffs.

“I know. But a Serpent can dream.” With one wriggle, Pea managaes to steal most of Jug’s blanket. “Hey, what are you thinking about? It’s some kind of mystery – no, someone mysterious. I can tell.”

“No, I’m not…” Jughead catches Pea’s skeptical look and stops. The guy has picked up on his wavelength already. “There was this girl – no, don’t smirk at me like that. She’s the skinniest, most bloodless human I’ve ever seen. But she’s got a secret. Have you ever seen someone and they look normal, even boring? But then you look again and see all these layers, and you realize your first impression was wrong. And you can’t help being curious about who she really is and why she doesn’t eat. I mean, she can go to the fucking grocery store and pick up food off the shelves, not steal it from underground plasma suppliers, and yet …”

He’s interrupted by a gentle snore. Sweet Pea has fallen asleep.

Jughead closes his eyes. Lulled by Pea’s warmth, he falls asleep quickly. In his dreams he enters a diner and finds a secret door. There a black-haired beauty points to a flight of stairs that leads down to a candlelit club.

The place is filled with Serpents and Gargoyles at the small tables listening to a chanteuse sing Sooner or Later. Exquisite girls circulate the room in gorgeous gowns accompanied by boys who are just as beautiful. One of them sits next to Cheryl, his hair flaming next to hers. He looks familiar.

As in the manner of dreams, Jughead floats to one of the tables and sits down. In that instant, the candles blow out to leave the room in the dark. Before he can cry out a warm body settles onto his lap. He touches silky skin, cool at first and warming instantly to his touch. It’s so intoxicating that he can’t help exploring the pillows of flesh on her hips, the delightful little pooch of her belly, the luxurious heft of her thighs.

And as he does the unseen Blood Companion purrs into his ear. “So nice,” she whispers. “Feels so nice. Don’t you want to taste me, Jughead?”

Her breath evokes the mysterious scent of her. He recognizes it right away: secret rooms and old books.

With a start Jughead sits up in the dark room. His heart pounds wildly, his mouth is dry with dreadful thirst.

Betty. His dream was about Betty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, please heed the tags.

After the unbearable eroticism of his dream the night before, Jughead arrives at Riverdale High with the firm knowledge that one class and a chance encounter at lunch simply isn’t enough. He combs his hair with rain-damp fingers and heads into the office, hoping for a sympathetic administrator. Miss Twyst sits behind the desk, and he gives himself a mental high-five. Twyst is the youngest of the admins, only a few years older than the Riverdale seniors.

“Good morning. Your shirt is the exact color of your eyes, did you know that?” Jughead widens his grin into a smile Sweet Pea calls “The Pantydropper” and leans both elbows on the high desk. “Sorry to bother you this morning. But is there any chance I could transfer into college prep Language Arts? The Honors course is really kicking my butt.”

“I suppose I could check, although you really should talk to guidance first…” Miss Twyst swivels to her computer, types rapidly, and frowns. “Your test scores are off the charts, and there’s a note here from the teacher that you’re recommended for AP…”

Her voice trails off as Jughead gives her the tiniest mental tug, just a nudge in her direction. “Things are really tough at home,” he adds. “Probably going to have to pick up more hours at work to help out. “

“But your education comes first.” Her eyes grow glassy as he deepens the tug. “Oh, very well. As it happens it’s an easy switch. But I want you to come and see me the instant you get bored, which I imagine will be soon.”

Jughead lets silent laughter crinkle his eyes. “You’ll be the first on my list.”

#

When Betty walks into Jughead’s new Language Arts class, the first thing he thinks is: _What have I done?_ His stomach sinks at the difference between Betty in his dream and reality. One was warm, rounded, blushing with health and simmering with sex. The other is the complete opposite. She’s even paler than he remembers, deep blue shadows of exhaustion etched under her eyes. Betty herself is like a shadow, a shade of a person who might flicker out at any moment.

He should have stayed in his old class, hung out with Miss Twyst later, maybe invited her for coffee. She had looked pretty in the office in her starched blue collar, flanked by wooden drawers polished by years of use and neat stacks of files.

Betty sits at a desk in the back and accepts a graded quiz from the teacher. Even from his seat several rows away, Jughead can see the angry red marks all over the paper. Miss Grundy, an older woman with white hair drawn into a bun, leans so close to Betty that wired spectacles slip down her nose. “We both know you are far better than this,” Grundy murmurs. “Either you’re lazy or just don’t care, both of which are unforgiveable. Make the corrections and have the quiz back on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

The teacher moves on, and Jughead peeks at Betty. The girl puts the paper into a notebook, moving as quietly as a nocturnal animal. But when Grundy sails to the front of the room to launch into a lecture, Betty glares at the board.

Jughead has never seen such an expression of horror and despair. It’s as if she lives at the bottom of a deep and dark well, fueled only by one coin of sunlight far out of her reach.

And there she is. Jughead’s dream-girl is alive and within his reach. Such an insignificant human, but Betty betrays flashes of hidden, vivid life behind her silent exterior.

All in all, it’s driving him crazy.

#

He follows her to lunch, staying well behind a shield of chattering cheerleaders in the halls so Betty won’t suspect his interest. Like the day before, she finds a far table and sits slumped over her books. Like him, she doesn’t eat.

As the bell rings one girl with ringlets cascading down her back tosses an apple with one bite taken out of it towards the trash, but her aim is off. The fruit lands on the floor and rolls under a chair. Betty doesn’t move, but Jughead can feel her concentration zero in on that one spot.

He’s the only one who sees her drop her backpack, pick it up and palm a round object, and continue as though nothing happened.

Jughead knows that she has stolen the discarded apple.

#

“I washed it three times in the girls’ restroom. Cut out the bitten part and sliced up the rest.” Betty holds out a red-edged sliver to Jason, thrusting it closer when he wrinkles his nose. “It’s fresh fruit, Jase. Do you know how long it’s been? The pills I steal from Edgar won’t last forever to keep scurvy at bay, and if he catches me…”

Her voice trails off. It would mean losing a finger, maybe more serious surgery.

Jason holds out his hand and takes the apple slice. In silence they chew their stolen food, gone far too quickly. Betty could eat an entire bag of apples.

Her watch shows that the hour is late. Darkness presses in the windows and under the door. In the past, both of them have been forced to spend weeks without light of any kind: a perverse punishment that only served to heighten Betty’s senses. She knows how to listen with every cell of her body, feeling for the slightest motion outside her bedroom.

She can sense there’s nothing in the halls. Edgar and Evelyn are asleep, giving Betty a few precious hours.

“You’d better get back to your room,” she tells Jason. “Do 75% of your homework and follow my guide spreadsheet. Study for your algebra test, but don’t fill in all the blanks when you take it tomorrow. Make sure you learn the material, though.”

He nods, a weary gesture, before leaning over to give Betty a one-armed hug. Like wind and moonlight, he slips out of her room and closes the door with great care. The well-oiled handle and hinges make no sound – Betty has made sure of that.

When Jason is gone, Betty sits and counts to five hundred. She gets up, locks the door, and kneels to roll back the carpet. It reveals a primitive hidden trapdoor, a contraption Betty rigged up as soon as the Evernevers moved her and Jason into the new Farm.

Holding her breath, she lifts the trapdoor. It reveals a 5x5 chamber, nothing more than the space between floors. The place serves as her study, kitchen, and war-room. There are emergency rations hidden in pockets built into the walls. A blanket covers an old filing cabinet and packing box, which Betty uses as her desk.

Working quickly, she climbs down and opens her backpack. An English notebook disgorges her quiz, the same one Grundy spoke to her about. Betty pulls out the top drawer of the filing cabinet and finds a duplicate quiz covered in her own neat writing. Each blank is filled in, and the essay section has a long answer with multiple quotes, sources, and examples.

She checks it next to the one from Grundy’s class. With a flare of angry satisfaction Betty writes 100 on the top of the duplicate in red.

This is the grade she _should_ have received. No one will ever realize that she knows the material perfectly, better than any student in that class.

“Attract no special attention,” Evelyn has told her. “Pass your classes. Don’t get A’s or B’s. Don’t get any scholastic honors. You’re invisible, do you understand?”

 _Very well then,_ Betty thought. _I’ll be invisible. But even ghosts can learn._

She works through the rest of her papers, each with a duplicate filed in the cabinet. If she had been allowed to work at the top of her game, Betty would have received all A’s.

Then she settles in to do her homework. Following the advice she gave Jason, she answers three-quarters of the questions.

By the time she’s done, midnight is long gone and Betty’s stomach aches with emptiness. She finds a packet of trail mix secreted between the panels of the trapdoor, eats a handful, and pockets the rest in a hidden flap of her backpack. It can be Jason’s breakfast.

As she tidies everything away and climbs out of her hidden room, Betty gets the sensation of being watched. Instantly she turns off the light and freezes.

The watcher isn’t in the house, she’s sure of it. On tiptoe, Betty steals to the window and looks out. Ragged stars bleach the hills of the Farm, showing only the old Dodge and rusty harvesters still dripping from the morning’s rain.

Even in that lunar landscape, Betty gets the sensation of life. Something waits and hides in the shadowed hills – not Evelyn, not Edgar – but a mystery that hungers for her in the night.


	3. Chapter 3

_No dinner today. Sorry._

Parked on the edge of the Lost Highway, Jughead brushes one thumb over Sweet Pea’s text and reads the words that aren’t written there: _We’re starving. We’re running out of emergency rations. We won’t last much longer._

There’s an offer on the table, one FP refuses to talk about. If the Serpents join the Gargoyles, the rival gang will give them access to regular feedings, probably as many bloodbags as Jughead could eat. His mouth waters, and familiar hunger makes the moon and stars waver overhead.

Joining the Gargoyles would mean selling out on the lowest levels. The Serpents would have to farm human victims, overpower them and bring them into the Gargoyle headquarters for consuption, the rush of hot blood straight from the vein.

Jughead closes his eyes, willing away the desire to feed. He’s pretty sure he could control himself, drink just enough to let Betty regenerate. Her neck would be warm under his mouth, and he’d pause to feel the pulse of heartbeat under her skin. As he bit, she would arch under him, making it easier to suck the scarlet life out of her. Maybe she would say his name, Jughead. Maybe she would grind against his hard and aching erection…

He comes back to reality, shaking with desire so fevered it nearly spills out of him. “Stop,” Jughead whispers to himself. “Stop it.”

He knows the Gargoyles _wouldn’t_ stop. They’d feed and feed until they drained their screaming victims’ hearts. They’d laugh as the Riverdale students – for Kurtz would demand the youngest and best food – begged and tried to fight back.

Overhead, the moon’s light spiders over the forest and abandoned motels on the Lost Highway. Hunger makes the rays splinter and diffract into a complicated web, one that’s invisible by day. Jughead has read about ley lines and never believed in them – not until now. The spears of light coalesce into a perfect star, and he wonders if those lines point to Pickens Park, the hidden bunker in the woods, or that terrible spot near Sweetwater where a boy was murdered years ago. He can feel those distant and mysterious spots like cancers in the dark, and the ones that lie further off – the mine in Greendale that seems to eat those who explore it after midnight, a strange school for witchcraft that no one is able to find.

“And yet,” Toni once told him, “it’s right there in the phonebook with a full-page advert. So _someone_ must go there. Which means it actually exists.”

Jughead doesn’t know about that, but he can feel the star’s center. It becomes more obvious as he grows hungrier that those lines intersect around the old Farm off the lost highway.

Maybe exploring will keep his mind off the ever-present desire for blood.

His bike grumbles and coughs before sulkily heading onto the cracked and pitted road. He passes an abandoned train station, crumbling trailers in their grass shrouds, a hideous place called The Circus Motel. It's advertised by a neon clown’s face with one eye that has burned out. Jughead doubts they’ll have guests checking in anytime soon.

He streams past thrift stores, slumping pizzarias, and a tiny shack with a hand-painted sign that proclaims _Prophet Prosperina Will Answer Any Question You May Have!_

The center of the ley star pulls Jughead on his bike farther from Southside and the inhabitants ofThistle House. Trees grow thicker of the Lost Highway and tiptoe out onto the road in the form of determined sprigs breaking through the pavement. Jughead slows down to navigate more carefully among the cracked mortar.

When the ley lines change direction and tugs him to the mouth of a driveway marked only by drunken mailboxes, he’s ready.

Turning off his bike, Jughead pushes it behind some fallen branches and approaches the driveway. The moon’s beckoning is nearly unbearable. It reaches inside him, tickling throat and belly and, yes, the tip of his dick until all he can do is stumble forward on the mossy stones. It’s a long and dirty scar of a road, leading to a blocky building that glowers at Jughead with two half-lidded windows in its upper floors.

He stops suddenly, chest tightening with excitement. A slender figure flickers in front of one of the windows, appearing as suddenly as though she just rose up from underneath the floor.

It’s her, Jughead is sure of it. The strange and alien chemicals of his own blood prickles under the skin as he watches Betty approach the window and peer out into the dark before withdrawing suddenly as though she can see him. It’s as though they stare at each other across the darkness. In the magical space created by those starry witch lines, perhaps she can sense his overwhelming desire for – for -

For her. For her blood, for her flesh, for her hidden and mysterious mind.

#

The class Betty dreads the most is Phys-Ed. When she’s hungry it’s impossible to run laps or do jumping jacks. Today the instructor blows a whistle and waves at the bleachers, causing the entire class to groan. It means they have to run something the coach calls Heart-Attacks. They have to jog straight up the bleacher steps and down again until the entire class drips with sweat.

Betty knows she simply will not make it up those steps. Biting her lip, she sidles to the teacher and whispers his name. When Mr. Leggatt looks up from his clipboard, she murmurs that she’s feeling sick and can’t run.

“Bull puckey,” Leggatt snaps. “You pulled that stunt last week. Go run those Heart-Attacks on the double.”

There’s no other option. Betty heads to the bleachers, picks a spot, and begins to ascend. _Just do it,_ she tells herself. _You can eat later. You’ve got two granola bars stashed inside your mattress, plus that half-box of Frosted Flakes. Eat those tonight and you’ll be okay._

They’re the last of her food reserves.

Betty actually likes sports. There was a time when she loved to run, when she was on a peewee cross-country team with both parents on the sideline cheering her on. The image is still clear, a Saturday morning in October with the smell of pine in the air and leaves underfoot, the track wavering in front of her vision as she runs to the finish line. 

What happened next is foggier: her father’s arrest, being forced out of their house, afternoons at the babysitters while her mother worked long hours to pay the legal bills.

The babysitter lived in a neighboring apartment. The whole building smelled like oatmeal, Betty remembers. There were stains on the carpet in the hallway, and the elevator never worked.

The sitter’s name was Evelyn Evernever. She took care of Betty and a boy named Jason.

And, one brutal afternoon, Betty and Jason never returned to their homes.

The climb up the bleachers is like running through wet sand on a humid August day wearing a suit made out of old mattresses. Betty feels her heart flutter, and black spots crowd the edges of her vision. Time folds in on itself, and then she’s flat on her back staring up at another student. She has a beautiful face, this unknown person, framed with long black hair as she leans over Betty and frowns.

“Don’t move,” the girl hisses. “You fainted.”

Ignoring this, Betty sits up and nearly passes out again. She covers her eyes with one hand and whispers back, “Just give me a second…”

“Oh, Mr. Leggatt?” the girl yells. “My friend here has the, you know. I’m taking her to the bathroom. Girl stuff, so don’t ask.”

It’s a command, not a question.

The teacher splutters something, but already Betty has been hoisted to her feet and dragged out of the gym. “What’s your name?” she slurs as she stumbles next to the black-haired angel.

“Veronica. And you’re Betty. I’ve been meaning to make your acquaintance, but between Daddy’s work and Mother’s social engagements I barely have a second to myself… ah, here we are. Now, sit still in this lovely chair thoughtfully provided by the Education Department and I’ll get you a drink.”

Reality flickers in and out as Betty collapses into the vinyl seat in one corner of the dingy bathroom. _Get a hold of your shit,_ she tells herself. _You can’t – you can’t do this. You won’t survive. The Evernevers won’t let you survive this…_

“Here.” Veronica pushes something cold into Betty’s hand, and with a surge of joy she realizes it’s not water but a can of ginger-ale. The sweet fizz goes down far too easily in one, two, three gulps, and with a pang of shame she realizes she’s finished the entire thing. Dimly she hears Veronica saying Holy shit you were really thirsty. Then, the girl presses something covered in saran wrap into Betty’s fist.

The small object is half a sandwich.

#

Jughead has decided there are two Bettys. One lives in his imagination, vital and delicious. The other is a pale shadow who exists in the real world. He knows it’s like calling a mirror image real, but Jughead can’t help thinking of the dream-Betty as the actual one, the girl who was meant to be.

In English class he slouches to his desk and steels himself for the usual reality-slap when she comes in. Like a kid at Christmas, Jughead squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for her to enter.

“Boo.”

The whisper in his ear sends a cataract of shivers throughout his body. It’s like a dagger going down his spine and straight for his heart. Jughead gasps and jerks upright in his seat, scanning the classroom. Nothing has moved, except for a new addition: Betty Cooper is sitting demurely in her seat as though she’s been there all day. As he watches she takes a pen from behind her ear, clicks it, and opens her notebook. Her gaze swivels sideways, connects with his briefly, and her cheek dimples slightly.

The palest flush of rose rises on her cheekbones when he grins back, as elegant as a duchess with a full dance card. Her eyes snap with new energy, and even her ponytail seems curlier. Jughead feels a growl in the back of his throat as he realizes on how many levels she’s changed. Or, he considers, ‘changed’ is the wrong word. Betty has… emerged, as from a shell or a prison.

But why?

Grundy has already launched into a lecture about The Great Gatsby and the death of the American dream, waving one hand in the air to make her point. She’s a good teacher, but Jughead isn’t paying attention. Instead he’s hyper-aware of an electrical charge between him and the blond girl, a kind of Hey-Something-Might-Be-Happening-Here.

Betty blinks slowly, fans of lashes gold against her pale skin, and bites the tip of her pencil with white teeth. Jughead can’t resist catching her attention. “Do you like him?” he asks.

“Like him?”

“”Uh, you know. Gatsby. Do you like Gatsby?” Already he’s regretting the stupid question.

But Betty turns and regards him with a steadfast look, as though she’s considering her answer carefully. “Gatsby. Yeah, I do. I love that he had an “extraordinary gift for hope.”

Jughead slides his desk closer to hers before leaning on one wrist and regarding her intently. “Hope, huh? I guess Gatsby’s the embodiment of that, what with his little green light on the dock and all those wild parties. But he was also a criminal.”

“He smuggled booze.” He can see the blood in her throat pulse as though a wild concerto beats through her veins and she simply cannot help herself. “Didn’t you ever want to do something illegal like smuggling?”

Jughead huffs out a laugh, thinking of the last run he did with Sweet Pea across the Canadian border. “I may have smuggled a few items. Not drugs, just in case you were wondering.”

“Drugs?” Betty’s lips spread in an answering grin. “Pffff. I was hoping for Kinder Eggs. They’re illegal here, you know.”

Smothering a surprised bark of laughter, Jughead feels his stomach do a slow roll of hunger. And as they take notes, outline chapters, and (in Betty’s case) hand in half-finished assignments his skin prickles with growing desire. He realizes as the class bleeds to an end that he won’t be able to wait any longer to ask her out.

The bell rings, and Betty is out the door before Jughead can move. “Pages 58 through 165,” Grundy calls, but he’s already on the prowl after a bouncing ponytail as she scurries through blobs of students in the hall. The girl weaves through cheerleaders and football players like a fox on the run.

He catches up to her in the next hall where she’s posting books into the top section before pulling out a neat stack of notebooks. Jughead props one arm on the door of her top locker and jams a toothpick into the corner of his mouth, an old trick to stem his bloodlust.

“Hey,” he says. With a shriek, Betty spins around, and he raises both hands in a _Don’t Worry, I’m Harmless_ gesture. “You ran away before we could finish our little talk. And I wanted to know more. That is – um, yeah. Why is, why is hope so important to you?”

Her eyes narrow as she considers the question. “Because I don’t have any…” Her words trail off, and she shakes her head. “No, that’s not right. I think sometimes that’s all I have.”

“See, things like that make me want to know more about you.” He gestures to the hallway filling up with students and flustered teachers. “It’s Friday, in case you haven’t seen a calendar lately. Any chance we could maybe continue this conversation tonight? At the library or down by the river?”

“The library,” Betty repeats.

“Or I could take you out to dinner,” Jughead pursues. He’d have to fake-eat, but it could be arranged. “Pops has the best burgers in town. Whaddya say, some cheese fries and strawberry shakes, or chocolate or vanilla? Whatever you want, my treat. Unless you just want to go and hang out in the sci-fi section instead. Oh, I know where there’s a boat hidden by Sweetwater River if you’re up for a moonlight ride…”

He’s talking too much.

Gently Betty moves his elbow off her locker door so she can close it. Those expressive lips part, and he leans in to catch her answer.

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t.” Betty’s eyes dart like startled minnows until a boy steps into Jughead’s space, way too close. It’s that redheaded kid, the one who is as beautiful as a cover model. Jason, that’s his name. The boy’s delicate brows are pleated with dawning anger, dagger-stare burning holes in Jughead’s flannel.

Without a goodbye, Betty turns and falls into step with Jason.

Jughead is left alone in the crowded hallway.

#

“Don’t look at me like that,” Betty hisses. “It’s not like you never had to sidestep some love-struck girl. I’ll take care of it.” She touches Jason’s arm and points to the speedometer. “Slow down before we get noticed by the law. Oh, and I nearly forgot!” Betty hands over half of Veronica’s sandwich and watches as Jason bites into the bread and cheese. “No apples today, but I did manage to punch the snack machine hidden downstairs by the gym. Ta-dah: peanuts and trail-mix for the weekend.”

It’s a pitiful little selection. Saturdays and Sundays are the worst, long and hollow hours that echo like a gong in a graveyard. If they’re lucky, she’ll have a few minutes to raid the cabinet and steal sugar, handfuls of crackers, maybe a tin of peaches from the back shelf.

They reach the Farm, and Jason turns off the engine. Quickly Betty produces a tissue so he can wipe sandwich crumbs off his mouth.

No one must know that they’ve been eating.

#

Evelyn informs them that evening chores are in the Edgar’s experiments room, an old operating theater with tiered seats built so medical students could study surgery in action. Betty firmly steers her thoughts away from what Edgar does there in the gloomy, echoing chamber.

They mop unknown fluids off the floors. Jason jerks the tables and chairs into perfect symmetry. Betty puts scalpels and hideously long shears into a sterilization pan. Together they dust shelves of bottles along the far wall, a collection of anatomical parts in oiled, murky fluids.

She tries not to look at the things floating inside. Years spent with the Evernevers have taught her to disassociate with reality, force her mind away from pain and fear. Betty inhales slowly, counting her breaths to decelerate her heartbeat. It’s an old trick, taught to her long ago by – her mother? Her father? An older sister?

The memory is gone.

In this state she is able to float out of the hideous theater and her overwhelming hunger. Although she and Jason polish sharp instruments and the dead, staring faces of the bottled specimens, Betty has escaped the confines of the Farm. In her mind she’s beside Sweetwater River. Sun streams between the leaves, dappling the moss and violets underneath where she sits with a book in her hands. The river laughs at her when a dark boy emerges from the woods, one pencil stuck carelessly behind his ear as if he came to the river to write his own story. His eyes are the color of despair. His skin is nearly as pale as hers. And he’s hungry, so hungry…

The door of the theater flies open, yanking Betty out of her meditative escape. Edgar Evernever stands in the door, amusement crimping one corner of his mouth. “Hard at work, you see. These two love to finish their chores before they enjoy the weekend.”

It’s not the kind of thing he usually says. Edgar is always calm, even when he’s threatening to remove one of Jason’s kidneys for an imagined crime. But now his words have a forced gaiety, almost a gloating quality to what he’s saying…

The bonesaw in Betty's hand falls to the floor with a loud clang that echoes around the hushed gallery. Jason makes the first noise she’s heard from him in years, a strangled gurgle in his throat.

In the hall behind Edgar, a dark figure stands. Heedless of the punishment that surely will come later, Betty screams and runs forward.

_No. No no no no no._

Jughead, of all people. Has he followed them there? He must have.

The boy raises one eyebrow and parts his lips to speak. Probably he’s about to ask, _What the hell is wrong?_

But Betty cries out for him to run, run now, run away and never come back, but her words seem to be as silent and deadly as shouts in a nightmare.

Before she can reach Jughead, Edgar pivots in a snake-like movement and raises a hammer (was he holding it behind his back?) overhead. It crashes onto Jughead’s skull, and the dark boy drops to the gray carpet without a word.

“I know what he is,” Edgar says. “I could smell it as soon as he walked in. Children, this is a most interesting addition to my collection.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chains bite into Jughead’s wrists and ankles. The surgery where he lies is filled with old medical equipment. If he strains against his bonds he can just see an ancient green floor, studded with distressing stains. He lies in the center on the operating table.

He looks at the crumbling ceiling far above him. There are skylights set into the roof, but the glass is so old and dirty that nothing is visible. _If I climbed up there,_ Jughead thinks _, I could break the glass. Then I could see the moon and stars._

Restlessly, he tries the chains again, hoping for a weak link. _You’re losing it, Jones._ When he shouts for help, the room damps his voice. Probably there are noise-proof panels in the walls so no one catches Edgar in his gruesome crimes. Already Jughead’s throat aches from calling for Betty, for Jason, for anyone to come.

If he had eaten at all earlier, he could have overpowered Evernever and broken the bastard’s nose. No dinner or lunch or breakfast have made him too weak, and now all Jughead can do is to wait for the man’s return.

There have been other victims in the past who have lain there in the same position, waiting for foul and violent torture. Jughead can feel those dead souls, their helplessness and fear. He can sense cold hypodermics sliding into flesh, the scrape of a scalpel, the quick rush of blood. Most of those unfortunates have died.

The really unlucky ones survived.

When Jughead left school, his intention was to find Betty, the girl with golden hair who had slipped through his fingers after class. He meant to go to her house, greet her family, talk her into a date or at least friendship.

An electric shudder runs through his body. She’s somewhere in this house of horrors and she’s lived with the charming murderer who calls himself Evernever, the one who eviscerates his “patients” with a calm smile. Jughead has only been here a few – hours? Minutes? – but Betty has lived there for years.

If he had any character at all he’d find a way out of those chains to go and rescue her, but instead he lies helpless as a trussed chicken awaiting the cleaver.

He can’t move. He can’t cry out. All Jughead can do is think.

_Put out my eyes and I can see you still._ His lips form the words from a poem he learned a long time ago – not in school, just from a page that he’d memorized because the words seemed to leap and carve themselves into his chest. _And without any feet can go to you… Break off my arms, and I shall take hold of you And grasp you with my heart as with a hand…_

“Betty,” Jughead whispers. “Betty.”

#

“You did very well today, very well indeed.” Evelyn produces a large box covered with bright paper from behind her back and holds it out.

Betty doesn’t move. She’s learned that gifts are dangerous.

“Go on.” Evelyn’s smile lifts one corner of the pale lips but doesn’t reach her eyes. “Edgar insisted we give you a present.”

The last thing Betty wants to do is open the gift. Every nerve in her body screams _Go to him, go to him now!_ Jughead’s still body, Edgar bending over him, the two disappearing into the operating theater as Jason claps one hand over Betty’s mouth so she wouldn’t cry out…

She wants to rescue Jughead. She also wants to punch his face. She wants to shout, “Why? Why did you follow me here?”

Instead, she has to sit on her bed and open a present.

Evelyn produces a massive pair of medical-grade scissors large enough to slice through someone’s sternum and cuts the air three times, snip snip snip. Her smile never wavers as she lunges towards Betty and cuts again, _snip snip snip!_

Betty looks down, certain she’s been sliced by the scissors, but Evelyn has only cut open the ribbon. With a shudder Betty removes the paper, opens the box, and parts the crumpled tissue paper inside. It reveals a neat swath of material, pale blue and starched into crisp edges.

“Take out your present.” Evelyn’s pale grin widens. “It’s a new dress. And there’s more. I added a sweater, socks, even shoes.”

The dress is the kind that buttons down the front with an attached Peter Pan collar. Under more paper there’s a liver-colored cardigan, along with bobby socks and Ked sneakers. It’s the ugliest outfit Betty has ever seen.

“Try it on.” And, when Betty doesn’t move, Evelyn’s scissors flick out to slice the space beside Betty’s ear. “Try it on, now!”

_Jughead,_ Betty thinks. _If I do what she says, maybe she’ll go away and I can get to him._ Forcing herself away from panic, she stands and takes off her t-shirt and jeans.

The dress is harsh against her skin. Its buttons protest against her fingers as she does them up as quickly as possible, not wanting to antagonize Evelyn. Its hem reaches below her knees, just long enough the cover the bruises caused by scrubbing the chapel’s stone floor.

“Good.” Evelyn nods. “And, since you have your nice new clothes, you won’t need these any longer.” She picks up Betty’s shirt and slices it into ribbons, _snip snick snick._ The jeans follow, their old denim threading under the sharp blades. When that’s done, Evelyn goes to Betty’s tiny closet, throws back the door, and removes sweatshirts and skirts, socks and shorts. The clothes confetti around them as Evelyn slices them up with the flashing scissors. She grunts when a particularly stubborn item won’t give way, but at last the cupboard is empty.

For a moment she and Betty stand still, regarding each other across a linen sea. Evelyn’s chest heaves from her exertions. Betty flattens her hands against the skirt of her new dress and waits for the next torture.

“Next time it will be your hair if you allow a boy to follow you home. Clean up the mess.” Evelyn closes the scissors with one final spiteful slice and leaves. The draft caused by the door creates a little whirlwind of silk and wool and cotton.

Collapsing on the edge of her hard bed, Betty waits for silence and doesn’t move. Once it’s quiet, she’ll fetch a broom and some bags and clean up the mess…

No.

No.

No.

For once, she’s not going to do what Evelyn tells her.

It’s time.

Betty’s hands begin to tremble with the enormity of what she’s about to do. At last it is her moment, hers to seize and run with. She owns nothing except her new dress, that and blind determination born of rage to escape. With the sudden clarity of a lightning bolt at midnight Betty sees that she has spent years living like a dragonfly suspended in amber: seeing the world but unable to reach it.

Someone whispers her name.

She doesn’t move. In the hallways the Evernever prowl like spiders. Anxiety spikes through Betty’s veins . Sheknows she simply has to wait until Edgar and Evelyn finally go to sleep, although the only thing she wants to do is run down to the operating theater.

_Focus on breath, in and out. Force your mind to stop whirling. Unclench your fists._ Her thoughts are punctuated by a cry from somewhere in the building, quickly extinguished. Betty compresses her lips and wills her body not to move.

_Time will pass. It’s passing right now. And now. And now. And there’s another minute gone._

The Farm settles into silence. Betty closes her eyes and feels the space around her. She senses solitude, meaning the Evernevers have retired.

_Wait. Wait. Wait,_ she cautions herself. _His life depends on it._

Betty makes herself breathe through her nose and count silently to 1000. At last she feels she can stand up and leave the room, a fish tank filled with the drifting threads of her ruined clothes.

The new Ked sneakers pinch her toes. The door handle slips under her palm. Betty pauses, waiting to make sure it’s safe for her to sneak out and find Jughead.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

With a squeak, Betty jumps away from the door. “I need more trash bags,” she gabbles. Damn it, she had been so close! “Maybe another broom, the vacuum cleaner, probably some dust rags…”

The door opens. Jason stands in the hall, wearing chino pants and a blue cotton shirt - a masculine version of Betty’s new dress. He’s rolled up the sleeves and, most unfairly, looks like a cover model for Vogue while she resembles a 1950’s candy striper gone wrong. Only a tiny bruise on one cheekbone mars his perfect beauty.

“What is it? Why are you here?”

Jason holds out one hand. A piece of paper ripped from the bottom of an old history worksheet is curled inside his palm, and when Betty unrolls it she sees a few words written in black capitals: _WHEN I TELL YOU TO GO, YOU GO._

And then Betty hears something, a crackled whisper-leaf blowing in the wild wind that has suddenly entered The Farm. _Break off my arms,_ it murmurs into her ear, _and I shall take hold of you And grasp you with my heart …_

Making up her mind, she takes Jason’s hand and steps out of her personal disaster.

#

Everything is gray and hazy, a floating fog of dreams. Lost in his extreme hunger, Jughead starts when a man in surgical scrubs appears beside the metal operating table where he lies in chains. Or perhaps Edgar’s been there for hours, listening to Jughead recite poetry and rave about Betty.

“I never offered you refreshment,” Edgar says. Jughead blinks to focus and sees that the man wears scrubs and holds a scalpel in one gloved hand.

“No. Don’t. My family will pay you whatever you want. Just let me and Betty go – and that other kid. Jason,” Jughead adds. “Anything you want.”

“Shhh, calm down. I just want to give you a drink.” The man pulls off one rubber glove with a snap and holds the scalpel flush against his palm. With one quick motion he grips the knife and pulls it out with a little snick as the blade catches on unprotected skin. Instantly red begins to pour from his fist.

Jughead tries to look away, but he’s too hungry. The smell of blood is hot in the air, and it makes his guts twist. He can’t help straining against the chains to try and reach the little scarlet thread that snakes down Edgar’s arm. “Please,” he begs, hating himself but unable to stop. “Please.”

Edgar moves his hand slowly, a trail of crimson flowers blooming on Jughead’s shirt. They stop just before he can taste the warm blood.

“You want this.” Edgar’s voice is tinged with wonder. “You want this so badly. And I want to feed you, do you know that? My wife and I both love to take in strays and give them homes. We’ll do that for you, you know. You can have your own room, blood sacrifice, whatever you need. We will provide the victims.” His face, handsome in the shadows, comes close enough for Jughead to see a spatter of freckles on one cheekbone. “All I want in returns are some samples. Skin cells, blood, hair. And one of your kidneys. There’ll be a few procedures, all very quick. I promise.”

“What?” As shocking as this demand is, Jughead is close to saying yes. God help him, the thought of fresh blood in his current state is overwhelming. Yes, he wants to say, Yes, take whatever you want, just let me have a drink.

Just as he’s about to agree, two bright figures appear behind Edgar. One is red, the other is pure gold.

The redhead whips a white cloth and whips it over Edgar’s face. The man’s eyes widen, roll back, and close to white crescents. He falls with a thud, revealing Jughead’s saviors - Jason, of course, and Betty.

As usual the boy doesn’t say anything but simply waves at the chains. Betty fumbles behind her ponytail to produce a bobby pin and bends over Jughead, her forehead crinkling as she concentrates on what must be the lock. He can feel her warmth, see the pulse of blood in her neck. “Did you hear the poem I sent,” he slurs.

“Hear you?” Her eyes betray a smile. “We have to leave right now … there.”

One final clink, and his bonds fall free. Jughead struggles to stand up, but the room instantly wavers. He’s going to pass out from starvation.

Betty gasps and catches him. She winds her arms around Jughead’s waist, and Jason gets the other side. “Car,” Betty orders. “Now.”

The three of them shuffle past Edgar’s limp body to the hall. Nothing moves there, just the pendulum of a huge clock.

Its hands point to 11:11. Time to go.

#

“Southside.”

It’s all Betty can get out of Jughead. She exchanges a look with Jason, and he turns left onto the Lost Highway. A weeping moon subsides on its ruined nest of clouds as they pass the Circus Motel and Prophet Josefina’s old fortune boudoir. “We’ll figure it out when we get there,” she says. “Because – because we just have to, that’s why.”

Of course Jason doesn’t answer, but the car picks up enough speed to let Betty know that he’s worried. When the car navigates a sharp turn, Jughead’s head slips onto Betty’s shoulder as though he simply doesn’t have the strength to sit upright any longer.

She whispers his name, but Jughead doesn’t answer. “What if Edgar did something to him?” Betty twists in her seat. “Oh god, Jason, what if he cut him or operated or drained his blood…”

This word makes Jughead’s eyes fly open. He stares at her, skin pale as parchment, the moon reflected in his eyes like twin flames. “Blood,” he repeats. “Blood.”

Jason interrupts by tapping the rearview. Betty sucks in a breath when she sees the headlights reflected there and realizes what has happened – the Evernevers are chasing them.

“Faster,” she urges, but Jason steps on the brake. Betty’s body is propelled forward against the bite of her seatbelt and thrown back against the seat. Before she can react, Jason flings open the door and jumps out, slamming it behind him.

“What are you doing?” Betty feels hot tears sting her cheeks as she leans out of the window to call after Jason. “We can – we can do this, we can make it, oh God just get back in the car…”

His hair is turned to Viking gold by the moon. Jason looks at her, opens his mouth, and says, “Go.” It is the first and last word she’ll ever hear from him.

Jughead breathes in her ear, a tiny whimper as though he’s in agony. This gives her a final spurt of energy, enough to climb into the driver’s seat and wrestle the gear into Drive.

As the car leaps like a broken tiger onto the final portion of the Lost Highway, Betty looks back one last time. Jason stands in the middle of the street, both arms outstretched: a dark cross backlit by Edgar’s high-beams.

“Go,” he had told her. _When I tell you to go, you go._ Betty feels like a paperdoll being ripped down the middle, and she screams in horror and rage.

Nevertheless she stamps on the accelerator, and Jason grows smaller in the rearview. The last thing she sees is Evelyn approaching him with her huge scissors held overhead.

Then she and Jason are gone.

The road spools forward, and gradually the Lost Highway turns into Main Street. Bright signs appear on the roadside, advertising Pop’s and bowling alleys and The Town With Pep. Betty has never been bowling or eaten at Pop's, and so she turns to the only place she knows - Riverdale High. Without the daily routine of going to school, hunting for food, and avoiding torture, she’s lost. Her heart aches for Jason, but she’s also worried about Jughead. He hasn’t moved since they escaped.

“Hey,” Betty sobs. “I, I don’t know where to go. Where to take you, I mean. I think you’re sick and I just don’t know where you live.”

There’s no response.

She turns into an alley and coasts to a stop so she can wipe her eyes with one sleeve. Evelyn’s sweater itches with new starch, and Betty yanks open the buttons to pull it off. “Stupid thing,” she shouts. “Stupid, ugly, dumb – ouch!”

Perhaps there was a pin in the collar. With one final unprintable curse, she cranes to look in the rearview and examine the scratch on her neck, one long red dribble beaded with blood.

“Betty.” Jughead is no longer asleep. He’s sitting up, pale eyes wide and fixed on her. “Betty – oh God, I can’t.”

Before she can react, he pounces. In that instant, everything turns slow and syrupy. Betty feels his cool breath first, then firm lips on her throat, the soft sweep of his tongue as he tastes shivering flesh.

Betty gasps as the pressure of his kiss turns into gentle suckling on her neck. A hot gold thread runs down the very core of her body through chest, heart, belly, right to a damp little rosebud between her legs. It flowers and pulses suddenly, once and twice and three times, something she’s never felt or even suspected is going to happen to her down there, and he just bites and murmurs into her neck and

then

it

all

goes

black


	5. Chapter 5

Jughead is lost in a cold and hungry sea, drifting without an anchor and about to go under for the third time. The last time he ate was just a few sips from a blood bag. Since then he’s been tortured, tied down, and apparently rescued.

_This is really it_ , he thinks. _Never thought I’d go without writing a novel or something important. That would have been nice, to wrestle with sentences until the words fell into magical and sparkling order…_

Magical.

Sparkles.

His hunger spikes, a dreadful pang in his throat. All of a sudden the air inside the truck smells like warmth and flowers and food and young girl, a scent so tender and lovely he wants to lick it. His eyes open, and Betty is grumbling at some flimsy material in her hands, and on her neck – oh, on her neck.

A few beads of scarlet blood.

Jughead says something meaningless and falls onto her. His hunger is a flaming serpent in his spine, twisting in his bones and making him growl. Betty gasps, but he’s beyond control, beyond everything except the pale, pulsing flesh spangled with her blood, and he kisses there first, and his lips part, and with the tip of his tongue he tastes her.

The stories of fresh blood whispered by Sweet Pea and other vampires are the sticky stuff of wet dreams, lewd whispers under the sheets. In reality, it’s like eating foods Jughead once loved and can no longer eat: half of a half sandwich, the crisp tang of a green apple, cold and sparkling soda from a can.

Jughead’s eager tongue flutters over Betty’s pulse, and the girl in his arms melts against his chest. But he wants more, and he can’t help sucking her neck, hungry for her blood. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, something’s going to – something’s going to happen-”

Her eyes open wide, and she thrusts against his thigh, once and twice and once again. He can feel that too, the first pulses of desire that she’s ever experienced, and it’s because of him. He has done this to her.

Growling, Jughead clasps her more tightly. _You’re going to be mine,_ or at least that is what he wants to say, but Betty falls limp against his shoulder. Her eyes roll back, pupils gone and showing only the whites show under her shuttered eyelids.

The girl – his girl – lies lifeless in his embrace.

#

Later Jughead will remember a horrifying chase through Riverdale. The certainty that he’s killed the person he’s been searching for his entire life. The fear of being stopped by the sheriff. Confusion – where the hell can he take Betty to get help? And the final realization that there is only one place: Thistle House and its starving inhabitants.

Luckily it’s Saturday and early enough for the town to be quiet. Except for a few joggers and one bleary nighthawk heading either for coffee or home, Jughead sees no one as he drives to the Serpents’ den. The truck protests as he jams on the emergency brake, pushes open Betty’s side door, and catches her as she falls into his arms. Carrying her bridal-style, Jughead walks to the front door and kicks it until Sweet Pea, sporting the worst case of bed-head on the East Coast, lets him in.

#

“She’s dying.” Jughead holds Betty’s hand in both of his, cursing himself and the screwed up fates that have brought him to the bedside of a beautiful girl – one that he might have killed. “Dying because of me. I bit her, Pea, and drank her blood. God help me, I - wait, technically, are we demons? Can I even say the word God without bursting into flames?”

“Obviously you can.” Sweet Pea hip-checks him so Jughead has to move over on the chair, just enough for Pea to share the seat. “Look, you were starving. That Evernever asshole tied you down, was going to hold you for who knows how long, might have performed a live vivisection for all you know. And, no, don’t start a philosophical discussion about whether we’re actually alive or just the undead because we got scraps to eat this morning.” He produces a nearly-drained bloodbag and holds it out. “Speaking of, I saved you this.”

The crimson liquid is cold and sluggish inside the plastic, and Jughead’s stomach churns at the thought of drinking it. After Betty’s hot life in his mouth, he simply can’t go back to hospital leftovers, or at least not just yet. “You finish it. But hey – thanks.” Jughead manages to nudge Pea in just the right place to force him off the chair, and he settles himself firmly in place. He’ll sit and watch over her all day and night, if that’s what it takes. “Do you think she’s dying?” Jughead can’t help adding.

“Of course she’s not dying.” Cheryl waltzes into the bedroom, wearing some sort of gown trimmed with feathers that makes Jughead want to sneeze. “She’s hungry. I’m way over here and I can smell it on her. And lucky her, she can call takeaway and get food just like that, instead of stealing it from labs or running it across the Canadian border. Which is what TT and I are doing tonight, since you’re obviously preoccupied.”

“Wait.” Jughead holds up one palm to silence Cheryl and ignores her disgusted snort. “Did you say - Betty’s _hungry._ She needs food – of course. Hell, I saw her pick up an apple from the floor in school the other day. I thought it was just some weird fetish, but … and look how thin she is. And how pale.” Fury rises like vomit in his throat, chocking him. “Those Evernever assholes were probably starving her! Fuck them! I’ll find them and fucking kill them, pull them apart, how dare they do that to her, they have no idea…”

“Slow your roll, OJ,” Cheryl drawls. “Get her some human food and feed her, and she won’t die of starvation. Unlike us if we don't get more blood tonight.”

#

Betty wakes slowly at first to a sliver of light. There’s a delicious smell in the room, the kind created by burgers cooked over an open flame and flanked by home-made French fries. She sucks in a huge gasp, her mouth instantly watering, and sits up in the unfamiliar bed. “What is that,” Betty slurs. “Whassat smell.”

“It worked,” a beautiful redhead trills. “Told you. Tata, now.” Flashing a great deal of long leg, the girl saunters out of the room where Betty has woken.

“Hey, hey.” Jughead sits beside the bed in an old armchair, holding several paper bags spangled with grease. “I don’t suppose – would you like some breakfast? Pops was the only place open and I didn’t know if you’d wake up soon and I didn’t want to get you eggs in case they got cold so I know hamburgers are a weird breakfast but that’s all I could. Well. Here.” He thrusts the bags out. “I mean, you can get up and shower first if you want.”

She ignores his long preamble and opens the bag, inhaling the heavenly aroma. “There’s a burger in here?” Betty can’t believe it.

“Well, yeah. Sorry. Oh, don’t do that! I’ll go back and get eggs!”

A tear slips down her cheek, and fiercely Betty hugs the bag to her chest. “I can’t remember the last time I ate a burger.” Her hands shake as she reaches in and finds a cardboard cone filled with fries. They’re hot and salty as she bites into fried potato. “Oh my,” Betty moans around the mouthful. “Oh my gosh, I forgot how good these were. Mmm. And is this a milkshake?”

“Strawberry.” Jughead rubs his nose. “Wasn’t sure what flavor you’d – oh, okay.”

Betty stabs a straw into the cup and takes a few deep sips. Ice cream, actually ice cream churned with what tastes like whole creamy milk and fresh berries.

And then there’s the cheeseburger. Enveloped in a square of wax paper, the sandwich oozes ketchup and extra cheese. Betty takes a massive bite, closes her eyes, and exhales as she chews. It’s as though all her food fantasies have come true, the ones she used to giggle about with Jason when they were…

_Jason._

Deliberately Betty places the burger back on its wrapper and turns to Jughead. “I have to save some for my brother.”

His gaze wavers like a candle beside a doorway. “But …”

“I’m saving some for Jason. Can you put this in the fridge?” Betty goes from starving to full in one moment, perhaps because years of eating so little have left her stomach pathetically shrunken like a child’s abandoned balloon. Or maybe it’s more, like being alive when Jason is either dead or close to it and she’s not there for him.

“You’ve been there for him for a long time.” Jughead’s cool palm slips into hers. “I imagine he couldn’t have survived without you.”

Betty snatches back her hand and tries not to feel bad about the flash of hurt in Jughead’s eyes. “How did you know what I was thinking? No – don’t answer that.” She thrusts the food bag under his nose. “Is there a bathroom I can use? Would it be okay if I took a shower?”

“Of course. It’s an old house, so you have to share. Down the hall, and Cheryl - the one with long red hair, she's kind of hard to ignore - keeps the shower stocked with towels and stuff girls like..”

Betty gasps, a quick snort of laughter. “’Stuff girls like’ - you mean soap? And shampoo?”

Jughead’s face crinkles in a quick grin. “Yeah. And towels and bubbles and make-up and all that sort of thing.”

#

In Betty’s world, showers have been hurried and utilitarian affairs. Get in, don’t wait for the water to warm, scrub the necessary places and jump out before Evelyn hears. She’s completely unprepared for the free-standing tub in front of a dormer window, piles of towels in a glass-fronted cabinet, the separate shower that has about five water heads. There are boxes of unopened soaps in lavender and lemon and mint. One quick peek under the sink shows her rows of cleanser and makeup. Betty can’t even identify some of the jars.

She strips out of the disgusting uniform and drops it on the floor with a shudder. “I may not have a home, family, or – anything, really, but I vow never to put industrial wear of any kind on my body again,” Betty vows.

The water in the shower is instantly warm. When she soaps up the bubbles smell like a French garden, and the shampoo promises ‘luxurious locks.’ It’s a far cry from the dish soap she used to steal from the kitchen.

Betty lathers and rinses and repeats. Flashes from the night before come back to her: Jughead in the surgical theater, his eyelashes black against pale skin, the sharp delight of his teeth on her throat.

And Jason standing in the headlights…

Betty turns off the shower and steps out. The towel is the size of a sheet, and she swipes it savagely over damp skin, her punishment for letting Jason go. She finds a new comb in a plastic sleeve marked Five Seasons and swipes it through her hair.

She tucks her towel neatly like an Egyptian garment and picks up the starchy ball of her old clothes. After a quick check to make certain she hasn’t left a mess, Betty sidles into the hall and tiptoes to the room where she woke, intending to ask Jughead for an old pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

The room is empty.

Betty croaks his name, but there's no answer. He must have gone, and no wonder when she snatched her hand away and he had been so kind. She clears her throat and tries again, and after a few minutes the door bangs open.

Cheryl has returned, now wearing a microscopic skirt and a fitted military-style jacket. She fists her hips and looks at Betty, a quick up-and-down assessment. “What do you want, pray tell? Your screeching is migraine-inducing if you want the truth.”

Swallowing, Betty gestures at the towel. “I can’t walk around your house wearing this all day. Are there any clothes I could borrow?”

With an unimpressed sniff, Cheryl stalks forward and kicks the discarded uniform. “You certainly can’t wear this first-degree crime against fashion. Time to burn this dust-rag.”

“Sounds good.” Betty raises her chin, refusing to be cowed by this crimson beauty. “In fact, I'll light the match. But I need something to wear, maybe some old sweats and a discarded t-shirt. I’ll work for you and once I get a job I’ll pay you all back for the clothes and the, you know, the food.”

“Yeah, I don't wear 'old sweats' or 'discarded t-shirts.' Besides, you've got everything you need right here. We usually keep a variety of sizes.” Cheryl pulls open a mirrored door set into the corner to reveal a tidy walk-in closet. It's filled with dresses on hangers, jeans and sweaters folded neatly on shelves, and an entire shoe wall. Scarves, some jewelry, and leather belts in different colors hang from hooks.

“And as for paying us back…” She kneels gracefully and pulls the bottom drawer to reveal green bricks of money banded and stamped with a coiled snake. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“Holy shit!” Betty claps both hands over her mouth. “You can’t just show a virtual stranger your cash… Never mind. I’m _definitely_ going to pay you back, but thanks for the clothes loan. And, by any chance do you know where Jughead is?”

Another sniff. “Not my turn to watch him. That truck in our driveway is gone, so I guess he went out with that Pea Brain.”

She swivels on one patent leather toe and leaves Betty alone.

#

Dressed in a red sweater and the nicest pair of jeans she’s ever seen, Betty explores the hallway. There are other bedrooms, visible through half-opened doors. One is obviously Cheryl's, filled with racks of clothes and hats on stands. Feeling like an interloper, Betty hurries back down the hall, where she finds a bookshelf next to a tiny spiral staircase. There are beautiful volumes of poetry, what look like some first-editions, new novels, boxed sets, and wedged in one corner an old paperback copy of Gatsby.

She brings it back to the bedroom and sits on one corner of the bed, intending to go over what she’s already read for English. Thistle House settles into the afternoon silence of an old house in autumn sunshine, punctuated by a late mockingbird outside and footsteps in the floor above.

Is Jughead going out for the night? Will she see him again soon? Should she call the cops and report the Evernevers?

The birdsong goes silent. A moment later, a loud roar is followed by the squeaks of a truck that needs brake-fluid, the loud slam of a door, and male voices. Throwing down her novel, Betty tumbles off the bed and rushes to the window. Through the wavy glass she sees Jughead prop his bike and turn to Sweet Pea, who’s struggling under a stack of boxes. They disappear around the side of the house, and a minute later a screen door slams.

Flinging Gatsby onto her pillow, Betty flies out of the room and dashes down the little set of stairs. It leads to a small kitchen paned with more wavy glass under swaths of ivy, making the room look like a cozy fish tank. There’s a fireplace flanked by two iron Scottie dogs and framed by flower prints, a wide farm table, and lots of mismatched chairs. The only thing that’s missing is food.

“I’m telling you, you’re losing your mind…” Sweet Pea’s words die out. “Oh. You. Hi.”

Jughead pushes around Sweet Pea and plops a few bags on the table. “Brought you more food. Also, we went back to that Evernever hellhole and looked around, but the whole place is deserted.” He seems to notice Pea hovering in the background, still loaded with cartons, and waves at the stairs. “Take those up to Betty’s room.”

Sweet Pea scowls but heads for the stairs, disappearing in a thunderstorm of heavy footsteps and a few loud oaths. Betty clenches her fists and rounds on Jughead. “What did you mean you went back to that hellhole? Why did you call it my room? What was in those boxes?”

“Looking for Jason, you’re staying here instead of in a shelter, and I found that hidden stash of school stuff in the devil’s pit you slept in back there. Also I rescued my bike.” Grinning, he pushes one of the bags forward. “Italian sub from the pizza shop, and chips. And some cold sodas.”

“You just fed me, so I’m not really that hungry…” Betty’s words die out. Jughead takes out a greaseproof-paper parcel and unwraps it. The smell is heavenly, of ham and onion and cheese and really good bread. He shakes out a pack of chips, opens it, holds one out. She can’t resist taking a bite - pure salted sin chased with a pull of cold ginger ale from the can he pops open.

“Doesn’t this gross you out?” Betty asks. “Watching me eat?”

He leans his chin on one fist. “You have no idea how fascinating it is to watch, and ugh, I just realized how creepy that sounds.” Jughead clears his throat. “In my previous existence I enjoyed food. No, that’s the wrong word – I _loved_ food. Loved going to restaurants and opening the menu, deciding what to order, being served a platter with steam curling up from the center and those little sprigs of parsley. And the first bite was poetry when the cook got it right, char-grilled burger or cheesy pizza or a perfect milkshake.”

Betty laughs suddenly, a creaky and disused sound in the red brick kitchen. “I thought I wouldn’t eat again for hours, but you’re making me hungry.” Jughead produces a switchblade, apparently from thin air to wave it over the sub, and she adds, “What’s that for?”

“We don’t have actual cooking stuff in here, although I’m going to get some – sub-zero freezer, cabinets filled with spices, real silverware, so you can feed Jason when we find him. Betty, I promise I’ll do everything I can to get him back to you.”

His words hang in the air: _I promise I’ll do everything I can to get him back to you._ With that, Betty's world shifts on its axis like a stone giant rolling over in bed. She’s never had time for anything but survival, and now even that is blotted out by the eager hunger in the face of the boy next to her.

She stretches out her hand, takes the knife, and finds the button that releases the blade. When it snicks open, Betty holds the sharp edge against the pad of her forefinger and pull down in a quick and crimson explosion of pain.

Jughead rears back and sucks in his breath as a line of blood flows down her finger, her palm, her wrist. Murmuring a few words that she won’t remember later, Betty leans forward and puts her bleeding fingertip deliberately on his bottom lip.


	6. Chapter 6

Jughead hides from mandated gym sprints in a top bleacher and opens a new document on his laptop. He hesitates before naming it Fugitive, which is general to the casual onlooker but not to him. There’s only one fugitive as far as he’s concerned, and Jughead is determined to pin down everything he knows about her. Perhaps something will trigger a successful search for the Evernevers and, by default, Jason.

 

_Fact: Betty hid boxes of files for years. Sweet Pea dropped one when he brought them upstairs to the room where she’s staying in Thistle House saw some of the folders scattered on the stairs: 9 th Grade English, Algebra I, US History Post-Civil War._

_“They’re filled with assignments,” Pea told me later. “Double assignments. The rubber band busted on one of the files and I could see them all. Quizzes, tests, essays, all done twice. The top ones were graded with C minuses, D plus, marks like that. And underneath… well, I’m no genius, but I know a perfect test when I see one._

_“For some reason,” he added, “Cooper’s been turning in dumbed-down papers at school. Weird, right?”_

 

Jughead stops and considers the words on his screen, remembering Betty’s Chem II quiz paper. There had been a subtle pattern to her answers, he remembers, the way she scratched some out and left others blank. In a small sense he’s been doing the same thing so the teachers don’t discover what he is: so much more than human.

The bell rings, and he slaps the screen shut in frustration. It doesn’t make sense. After all, Betty is fully human. Painfully so.

#

Toni, Cheryl, and Sweet Pea are all on a raid with FP, so Jughead enters the cafeteria alone. For once, that’s just the way he wants it. His desired prey is also alone at a table in the back, writing furiously in a slender notebook. The sight of her makes his mouth water, and he remembers the little tastes Betty has given him, a trickle of blood on Saturday, a few drops the night before.

Each feed is ecstatic, affecting him like a lover’s forbidden caress under the table. Betty’s liquid life on Jughead’s tongue is pleasure and more, giving him the memory of eating melting cheese on warm bread with fried potatoes and a grilled hamburger…

Before he can sit next to Betty, someone else beats him to her side. A girl with black hair in a cheerleading outfit touches Betty’s shoulder and plops into the seat next to her in the very place Jughead wanted to sit. As soon as Betty looks up, the cheerleader appears to launch into a long, impassioned story complete with a few index-finger waves, as though she were conducting an invisible orchestra.

Jughead beelines for the table, pulls the chair on the other side of Betty out with his sneaker, and sits as close to her as possible. The cheerleader stops mid-sentence, something about “And then Daddy said he’d take all the monthly profits from Pop's as repayment instead of letting me… Uh, who are you? Betty, do you have a boyfriend I didn’t know about?”

Betty interrupts before he can answer. “Veronica, this is my friend, Jughead.” She wrinkles her nose and adds, “Actually, he's more like my personal savior.”

“Personal savior!” Veronica stretches her eyes. “Well, this is a tale I simply have to hear. How did he save you? What was your predicament? And don’t skimp on the details.”

“Hardly a savior,” Jughead grunts.

Reinforcing his belief that she’s a one-dimensional featherhead, Veronica appears to lose interest. “Where’s your lunch?” she demands, turning back to Betty. “You’re not going to faint in gym again, are you?”

“You fainted in gym?” Jughead asked just as Betty insisted _No, that didn’t happen, there was no fainting._

“Well.” Veronica picks up an expensive-looking protein drink and takes a delicate sip. “Here I am babbling about my problems and you haven’t even got food. Jughead, go and fetch her some delicious tidbits.”

He’s about to refuse for the sake of it when he realizes that 1. Betty looks pale, probably with hunger and 2. the French fries at Riverdale High aren’t that bad if he remembers correctly. Jughead restrains the urge to tell Veronica he was going anyway and this has nothing to do with her order and heads to the straggling lunch line.

By the time he returns with a loaded tray (those French fries, assorted sandwiches, juice, water, and two colossal cookies) the two girls are deep in a conversation about Pop’s Diner and the fate of the Vixens. “Pop Tate has sponsored our team for the past twenty years at least, but as I said the diner isn’t doing well. He can’t afford to help us this year, and we desperately need new uniforms and equipment to conform with updated safety standards. Not to mention poor Pop! He’s a Riverdale institution!”

Betty winks as he slides the loaded tray, and Jughead thinks how pretty she looks. Just one weekend of regular meals seem to have fleshed her out, making her cheeks pink and eyes glow. He catches Reggie giving her an appraising glance from the neighboring table, and Jughead scowls.

“What’s that frown for?” Betty spears a few fries into her mouth and offers them to Veronica. “Mmm. So much salt. Mmm, extra crispy.”

“Have a sandwich.” Jughead waves a turkey and cheese in her face. “Mayo?”

Her lashes fluttering, Veronica peers at Jughead. “Personal savior and nanny, I see. That’s probably my cue.”

Quickly Betty covers Veronica’s hand with hers. “Don’t go, please. Have some of my fries, tell me more about Pops and La Bonne Nuit.”

“I will. However, that boy is eating you with his eyes while you’re eating lunch.” Veronica rises and gathers her drink, books, and purse in one smooth motion. “I’m going to practice but I’ll call you later, promise.”

“Seriously, that is a huge scowl on your face,” Betty says when Veronica has sashayed out of the cafeteria. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not… I don’t mean to eat you with my eyes. No, that’s not what I – stop laughing, damn it!” Scrubbing both hands through his hair, Jughead blows out a long breath and tries again. “You’re not just a meal, but when I’m near you I can’t help thinking about, well, what we did last night and yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.” The last part comes out in a rush.

She fixes him with an assessing look while drinking a long swallow of apple juice. “I think about it too. And I have so many questions. How’s your self-control? Do you want to drain me dry in a weak moment? How much do you usually need when you have a blood-bag?  There’s about a liter of blood in one unit, right? So how can you be okay after the little sips you’ve been getting from me?”

“Shh.” Jughead looks around the cafeteria. Most of the students are intent on their phones, but he shifts his chair closer to hers. “The fresh stuff is incredibly powerful, you have no idea. Your blood has life-force, for the lack of a better term. I’ve been better-fed this weekend than I have after a successful raid with extra rations for everyone, and that’s not all.”

“No?”

“No.” Jughead’s close enough to smell the apples in her breath, and it’s like they’re alone together inside a little bubble. “I was something of a foodie before Toni turned me, and I really missed it until I met you. When I taste your blood, it’s like i get to eat everything you eat.”

Betty wrinkles her nose. “Wait. You can taste my meals?”

“It’s more like reliving flavors that I thought were lost forever. The salty crisp snap of French fries, the thick frost of milk shakes, melted cheese blending with ketchup on a perfect burger.” Just thinking about it makes him ravenous.

Picking up one of the cookies, she waves it under his nose. “So you’re going to be eating this later?”

_Later._ Jughead inhales sharply. “We need to talk about that. I don’t want to take get greedy and take too much from you…”

She puts down the cookie, dusts off both hands on a napkin the size of a business card, and curls her fingers through his. “Don’t you? Besides Jason, that makes you the first person to worry about me in years. But listen, I’ve done some research on blood-letting, and it turns out the human body replaces all blood after donating in a few days - six weeks to completely recover. But you’re taking a lot less than that each time – not to mention, I feel great. I feel fantastic, in fact. If Jason were here, I’d be really happy…”

“We’ll get him back,” Jughead promises wildly.

“Will we?”

He shoves her tray to one side and put his arm around Betty’s shoulders. “I’m going to do everything I can to get your brother back. Sweet Pea and I didn’t find anything, but you bet your ass we’re going back to get answers – with back-up, this time.”

“I’m coming with you,” Betty states. “No, don’t shake your head and get all adult and strict on me now. I’m not a princess in a tower, not the swooning maiden, you got that, Jones? I refuse to be a victim.”

The space around them, painted in a particularly vile shade of industrial pea-soup, seems to shiver into place so violently Jughead nearly feels his ears pop. He’s been looking at Betty as a pretty girl with blinding intelligence and blood that’s fucking delicious and drives him insane, but in that moment he sees her.

He _sees_ her.

She’s a fierce fighter confronting the charging bull that has been her life. In the face of dark horror, she’s soldiered like a knight for Jason and her own sanity. Anyone would be lucky to know her, and he – he gets to sit next to her, to give her the pitifully small gift of food, good Lord, Jughead thinks dazedly, he wants to buy her silky clothes and delicate earrings and …

“Jughead,” Betty repeats. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry.” He picks up a fork and raps it against the table as a distraction. “What did you say?”

She looks into his eyes, a gaze direct as a sea wind. “We haven’t talked about it yet, you know.”

“About what?”

“About the pleasure. When you drink from me, I mean. I feel it – it’s crazy and new, nothing I ever suspected could exist – and I know you feel it too.” The pink flush on her elegant cheekbones darkens. “I can feel you harden against my hip when you drink.”

“Jesus.” Jughead grips the fork. “You can’t talk like that – you – I – we…”

Slender fingers curl into his, and Betty gently takes the fork out of his fist. “You know what’s strange?”

“What?”

“We haven’t even kissed yet.”

Jughead barks out a startled laugh, which makes her giggle. “Maybe,” he manages to choke out, “we’ll have to do something about that.” At this, her smile fades as the silence between them takes on a weighted and expectant feeling. A steady thrum seems to run between them, their hearts fluttering at the same rhythm. Moving slowly, Jughead tightens his hold. Betty’s shoulders are thin after years of not eating enough, and Jughead vows that he’s going to take the best damn care of her with yes food but other stuff too, bubble baths and back-rubs and painting her toe-nails if she’ll let him…

“Betty Cooper.”

The voice cuts into their perfect little world. Jughead looks away from Betty and squints at the person standing by the cafeteria table, a young woman wearing a tailed shirt and faultless suit with silver earrings visible through her curls.

It’s Trula.

“Yes?” Betty pulls her hand from Jughead’s grasp.

“You are Miss Cooper?” Trula checks the tab on a pink folder in her arm and nods. “We just got a call in the office from the Child Welfare Services. Apparently your guardians, the Evernevers, have filed a Missing Person’s report under your name.” Her gaze goes between them, from Betty to Jughead and back. “Do you have an explanation, Miss Cooper?”

He can nearly hear her heart rate increase to a terrified express train on the run across a dark landscape, and fury makes his own chest ache. “My father’s on it,” Jughead declares, smiling through his teeth. “She’s staying with us while the courts figure it all out.”

“The school can’t be party to a court case, especially when the guardians…”

Jughead stands so suddenly that his chair falls back with a bang, making Midge look up from her phone. “They aren’t her legal guardians. Did you ever check to see if they had been given custody? No? In that case, I’d take your little folder and put it back in the drawer where it belongs.” Trula opens her mouth, but he’s too angry to listen. “Sheriff Jones will be in touch to give you all the details by tomorrow at the latest. Come on, Betty – it’s time for class.”

#

That night after pizza, homework, studying and more homework, Betty goes to bed. She’s been quiet all evening, and Jughead hovers around her bedroom door even after the light turns out.

_Maybe I can make her waffles in the morning,_ he thinks. _Or at least pancakes. Or… or toast. Probably I can manage toast._ He still remember the pleasure of melting butter sliding under pools of honey and jam…

“Jughead.” The whisper comes from inside Betty’s room, and he jumps. “Jug, I can hear you thinking out there. Come on in.”

He knuckles the door and slips inside. Betty is a lump in the bed, only a tumble of curls and one green eye visible above the blankets. “Sorry sorry sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” She pushes up on one elbow and pats the mattress. “I can’t…”

“You can’t?” Jughead prompts.

“Can’t stop thinking about it. What if that woman is in touch with Evelyn? What if Edgar finds me here and drags me back into his house, I can’t go back, Jug, I just can’t, I can’t do it again, I can’t.” Some tiny, inner voice prompts him to sit close and put both arms around her. Betty collapses against him, snuffling into his old S shirt. “And then there’s Jason. He’ll think I forgot him. What am I going to do?”

He cups her chin in both hands and tilts up her face. One mischievous beam of moonlight catches Betty’s skin and tumbled curls: smooth silver and knotted gold. “FP’s on a run, but as soon as he returns he’ll sort out the missing persons report and charge them with kidnapping and child abuse. The Evernevers are going to be very, very sorry they ever called in that bogus charge and, by the way, leave little Miss Twyst to me. You won’t hear anything else on that score, promise. And as for Jason.”

Jughead takes a deep breath before continuing. “Let's back to search the place. Maybe then we could find some clues to show where your brother went.”

With a squeak, Betty flings her arms around his neck. “Yes! A thousand times yes. It’s feeling bloody useless that’s the worst part, just sitting here like a lump eating your food and spending your money. It’ll be pure hell to return to that house of horrors, but maybe we’ll see something that will lead us to Jason.”

Gently, Jughead presses his cheek to the top of her head. “It’s a plan. We’ll head over tomorrow after school.”

The bed complains when he stands, and Betty lunges forward. “Don’t go. Please, please, please don’t go. Could you maybe just stay? Would that be okay?” And when he hesitates, she pulls up one sleeve and holds her arm. “You can feed,” she offers. “I know you had your blood-bag ration this morning, but maybe this could be-”

“You don’t have to pay me with blood, Betty, for fuck’s sake, least of all for sleeping in your bed. Turn around.” With swift, savage motions Jughead strips off his boots, belt, and jeans before falling half on top of her. “Everything we have is yours, and you don’t have to use blood as currency. Not now, not ever.”

Their faces are very close on the pillow. “But I like it,” Betty whispers. “I like it so much.”

The skin on her wrist is silk and smells like soap, good crisped dough, and the heartbreaking delight of melting cheese. Under that Jughead smells her hunger for knowledge, for freedom, and oh god her hunger for him.

With a groan, he buries his teeth in her flesh and drinks.

#

In the middle of the night, Jughead wakes. He’s wrapped around Betty, who sleeps sweet as a kitten in his embrace. Downstairs a door bangs: the return of the feeding party.

About to drift off again, Jughead is startled by a wordless howl followed by several thumps, as if someone has kicked the wall. He knows what has happened.

It’s FP.

They haven’t found any blood.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Teenage Wildlife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515820) by [redcirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/pseuds/redcirce)




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